Friday, May 3, 2013

And we are still
out of the narrative…again. Going back
and capturing such star birthed and overwhelming love is a taxing task. So we enter the here and now, because so much
has changed and needs to get out. It is
life or death it seems these days, at this point in time.
So where are we?

“Slow down, don’t
fuck with my eye; I want to be left alone here with my monsters.”

-M. Doughty.

Let’s begin…

Murdoc is standing
in the dark, on a dry dock, whipped by the cruelest of cold winds coming in off
the black waters of the Coast Guard refitting yards on the Eastern
Shore. Above him, a cutter,
ocean going and vast, rises and balances on thick, compressed oak blocks and
steel. Something this vast shouldn't sit
so easy…on what seems like nothing. Two hundred and sixty-feet of twelve-story high rise steel, just hover’s above his
head in the soft moonlight.

“This shouldn't be.” He thinks this and repeats these
words like a mantra as he walks under the great mass of the elegant woman
suspended and out of her element.

The ship has been brought in on routine refurbishment. She
will be scrubbed and blasted and purged of two years worth of world travel. Barnacles are blasted off her sides that may
have hitched a ride from the Sea of Japan or the Adriatic, or the home shores
of the Atlantic. The ship’s manifest is kept secret from him
and he can only guess and wonder in the bitter wind and moonlight, where she
may have traveled. But he loves her
just the same. She is an elegant beast,
held up by engineering, revered and worth saving. You invest in great things.

The nightly task
ahead of him is ugly…evil…unforgiving…and not for men of weak minds, body or
soul and heart.

Holes are cut with
torches, into the very bottom of the thing which keeps her afloat. These holes, the only way in and out, are
fifty feet apart. This is the way in and
out for the men who will fix this creature from within, from below. This is the way into the ballast chambers,
one after the other, three feet wide and four feet high, one after the other,
for two hundred and sixty-feet. And the
only way to manage, from chamber to chamber to chamber to chamber, is to
wriggle thru a cold, jagged space roughly engineered to the size of the opening
of a household clothes dryer door. There
is no quick way in…no quick way out.
This is why there are few rescue efforts for confined space mishaps,
only “recovery.”

This is Murdoc’s
first time in “confined space”. He is
prepped by a veteran named J.R. It is
very clinical and matter of fact.

“Once the LEL
meter tells us nothing will blow up and we can breathe, we’ll go in. We will not be able to communicate once the
guzzler is running. And know this, if
you have a cut on your hand and it gets close to the intake, the beast will
suck you dry, your blood will be all gone by the time it takes to shut the pig
down. Work with me and let’s go home
safe. It’s all hand signals and eye
contact in the dark. If you feel uneasy
or panicky, signal me and we’ll get you out.
So are we doing this or what?”

J.R. turns on his
headlamp and waves his hand to the guzzler operator, “Fire the fucker up, let’s
do this, I want go home.”

And the noise, the
white noise and cacophony of hell rises as they climb into the bottom of the ship.

It’s black and
moonlight outside on the dry dock. They
wriggle in, thru the tiny hole cut into the ship, and the only light, is the
one LED beacon attached to the hard hat.
Hand signals are passed and the lights are tested. They are only one ballast tank in, black out,
and then relight. The seconds in the
dark and howl of noise, test the best of men sent in, and send most of them
out. Lights come back on and Murdoc is
still there. J.R. smiles and flashes the
“O.K.” sign.

And the
work/madness begins.

Murdoc, because he
is the new man, runs the line and follows J.R. into the dark.

And it is hell.

Murdoc is now deep
into the belly of the beast and dark and the howl, and thinks, “Yuppers, this
is pretty close to Hell. Fucking
glorious.” He isn't afraid. He should be, but he isn't. Instead he studies the architecture and the
welds within the scope of his head lamp that is his only light in the black,
the dark. J.R. moves ahead of him into
the dark and Murdoc follows. They keep
each other safe and work at a job that no sane person would ever attempt…for
the next eight hours without stopping in the dark and the howl and the bitter
cold.

And when all is
well and good, and it seems like the work is done, J.R, say’s to Murdoc, “Hey
man, we missed a couple of baffles, how do you feel about going back in and
getting them for me?”

And Murdoc knew exactly what was happening;
this was his last test. He had to go
inside alone and work the chaos by himself.
And he did. And in one night he
became one of the elite. He proved that
the dark, the cacophony, and the danger; wouldn't, couldn't break him. But fuck if it didn't try. Out of seventeen new men tested, Murdoc is
the only one that didn't wilt or fade, or give in to fear or weakness.

And standing by the
water’s edge, held back by a fifty-foot wall of dry-dock of steel and concrete,
wind whipping and howling, fury held at bay and tempered…

Greatness held
above him by such delicate and purposeful means…

And men, good men,
beside him that do the work that no one else should, or ever have to do, have
taken him into their fold…

Murdoc smiles,
again, and leans deep into the heavy cold wind that burns deep into his soul;
his eye’s well up with tears. It could
be the cold wind. It could be the chaos. Only he knows. But fuck if he doesn't just let the tears
roll down and sear his frozen surface and smoldering soul beneath.

Murdoc returns
home and walks thru the door to his quiet, lonely prison on the water, and says
this aloud…